The forest was thick with fog, curling low over the roots and swallowing sound. Aria stood barefoot on the training grounds, feet planted firmly in the frozen earth, sweat running down her spine. Every breath came sharp. Every muscle screamed.
But she didn’t stop.
Not this time.
Across from her, Zara tossed her another wooden blade. “Again.”
Aria caught it midair, spun it in her grip, and lunged.
Zara deflected with ease. “Faster.”
They moved in a blur, strikes and parries echoing in the morning mist. Aria ducked, twisted, used her hips to drive Zara back a step. The wooden swords clashed once—twice—then Zara’s blade swept Aria’s out of her hands and sent it clattering to the ground.
Aria didn’t flinch. She grabbed a fallen branch without hesitation and swung upward, grazing Zara’s shoulder.
Zara laughed. “There she is.”
Aria panted, eyes narrowed. “You’re not holding back anymore.”
“No,” Zara said. “Because you’re not fragile anymore.”
Aria stood straighter. She could feel the weight in her core—not weakness, not fear. It was strength, coiled tight in her ribs, sharpened by grief, forged by survival.
She picked up the wooden sword again.
“I’m not done.”
Word of her training spread through the pack like wildfire.
By the end of the week, she wasn’t just tolerated—she was watched. Warriors lingered near the edge of the field, pretending to stretch or spar, but their eyes were on her. She saw the glances. Heard the whispers.
“She doesn’t fight like a Luna.”
“She fights like an Alpha.”
She ignored them.
She trained harder.
She stayed late.
She woke earlier.
Every bruise, every blister, every drop of blood from splintered wood against her palms—it was all a prayer. A promise. To herself. To her child.
To whatever storm was coming.
One evening, as she soaked her feet in the freezing creek, Alpha Thorn appeared on the ridge above the glade.
Aria didn’t stand.
He came down slowly, his boots crunching through the frost, and settled on a stone beside her. For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Then:
“You’re making them nervous,” he said.
“Good.”
He chuckled dryly. “They expected you to fade. To cry. To be… quiet.”
“They expected the girl who left SilverCrest.”
He nodded. “And now?”
“I’m not her anymore.”
Thorn studied her. “You know what they’re calling you now?”
She raised a brow.
“Ghost Luna.”
Aria smirked. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Not by warriors,” he said. “They don’t name things they don’t fear.”
She met his eyes. “Then maybe they should.”
A beat of silence.
Then Thorn said, “The vote may be revisited. You’ve gained ground.”
Aria’s jaw tensed. “Let them revisit it. But I don’t need their blessing. I never did.”
He stood. “Still, it helps.”
As he turned to leave, he added, “There’s a festival next week. Full moon. Ceremony. The pack will gather. You should be there.”
Aria looked away. “They don’t want me on their land, much less in their rituals.”
“Doesn’t matter what they want,” Thorn said. “You’re here. You’ve earned the right.”
He paused, then added, “Come dressed like the Luna you were meant to be.”
Zara helped her dress on the night of the moon festival.
The gown had been left anonymously on the cabin porch—a deep gray that shimmered with silver thread, stitched in the old SilverCrest patterns. It was simple, elegant, powerful.
No corset. No jewelry. Just a sash tied beneath her belly and a slit that let her move freely.
Zara adjusted the sleeves, her fingers careful.
“They’ll stare,” she said.
“Let them.”
“You look like a queen.”
Aria looked in the mirror.
No.
She looked like herself.
Finally.
The moon was full, hanging low and gold over the SilverCrest compound.
Bonfires burned in wide circles. Drums pulsed in the distance. Children ran barefoot through the grass while wolves shifted and howled in celebration.
Aria entered the clearing alone.
Conversations stopped.
Heads turned.
And just like that—every eye was on her.
She walked slowly, deliberately, shoulders back, storm-gray eyes straight ahead. Some parted for her. Some didn’t. She didn’t care.
She saw the Elders watching from their benches.
Saw the warriors from training nod ever so slightly.
And she saw Milo, grinning beside a fire, raising his flask in silent salute.
Aria reached the center of the circle and stood beneath the sacred tree, its silver leaves glowing in the moonlight.
She placed her hand on her belly.
And the moment stilled.
Something shifted—not just in the crowd, but in the air itself.
She felt it.
A pulse.
Recognition.
The pack didn’t cheer. Didn’t bow.
But they watched.
And for the first time… they listened.
Later, Zara found her at the edge of the woods, barefoot again, rubbing her swollen ankles and exhaling like she’d run for miles.
“You did it,” Zara said.
“I just showed up.”
“No,” Zara corrected. “You rose.”
Aria looked out over the trees.
“He’s coming,” she said quietly.
Zara’s eyes narrowed. “You feel him?”
“I feel me. And I’m ready.”
